


we're on each other's team

by driedflowers



Series: hp challenge fics [11]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Partners, Aurors, Fake/Pretend Relationship, HP: EWE, M/M, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 20:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11974812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/driedflowers/pseuds/driedflowers
Summary: Harry and Malfoy are sent on an undercover mission to a Muggle town.





	we're on each other's team

**Author's Note:**

> title from team by lorde

“Ten Hale Hollow road, this is the place,” Malfoy says, pointing out the window at a modest blue house.

Harry slams on the brakes, and if Malfoy didn’t have his seatbelt fastened (as Harry insisted), he would have flown straight through the windshield. “Couldn’t you have given me some warning? Maybe, you know, when you saw _eight_ Hale Hollow road?” Harry gripes, pulling into the driveway.

“What’s the point in having this fancy machine if it won’t even stop when you want it to?”

Harry thinks about that for a moment, shutting off the engine, and says, “Shut up.”

They unload their things from the car, and as he and Malfoy approach the door, what they’re doing here finally sinks in. They’re going to be spending a month or more in this house, looking for ex-death eaters stirring up trouble in this sleepy Muggle town and living together.

Harry drops a box off in the kitchen and then shoulders his bag, heading upstairs. There are a few doors on the landing, and Harry opens them all. There’s a bathroom, a linen closet, and a couple of bedrooms. It seems like a perfectly nice house; it’s too bad there’s a rogue Death Eater living in the neighborhood. That’s gotta drive prices down.

They spend the next morning preparing for the case. The research department has narrowed it down to a few suspects, whose names and faces Harry and Malfoy commit to memory. They also go over their cover stories—they’re two young, blond lawyers (Harry got Hermione to charm his hair for the mission), moving to town to open a new practice.

Finally, after a lunch of tuna fish sandwiches, which Harry wolfs down and Malfoy picks at moodily, Harry drives them to the store.

“I still don’t see why you can’t go on your own,” Malfoy grumbles as Harry tries and fails to slide into a parking space in one move.

“We’ve been over this,” Harry says, looking over his shoulder and backing up to adjust, “you’re going to have to learn how to do these things eventually. We could be here for months!”

“Don’t remind me.”

Harry wasn’t usually dragged along for grocery shopping trips with Aunt Petunia, but this isn’t his first rodeo. He grabs a cart and walks toward the entrance.

The automatic doors open, and Malfoy turns white as a sheet. He grabs Harry’s arm and hisses into his ear, “What the hell, Potter? We aren’t supposed to use magic!”

“It’s not—” It’s hard to form an answer with Malfoy this close, in his space. “It’s not magic, it’s Muggle technology,” he finally says, shaking Malfoy off and laughing. He walks up to the doors again, and they open. “See? It’s a motion detector.”

Malfoy nods, probably pretending to know what that means. He follows Harry around the store without much protest, not doing a very good job hiding the awe with which he takes in the fluorescent lights, checkout counter conveyor belts, and massive freezers.

Harry pulls out his list. “Alright, we just need the noodles and we’ll be—” He looks up, just in time to glance the woman in front of him before he crashes into her. The boxes of penne she’s carrying fall the floor, and Harry bends to pick them up, apologizing profusely.

“It’s alright,” the woman says, her smile too bright, like the fluorescent lights. “You must be the new neighbors!” she says, putting the pasta in her basket so she can shake Harry and Malfoy’s hands. “It’s wonderful that we have such accomplished young lawyers coming to our community.”

“Yes, lovely to meet you,” Harry says, not sure exactly how she got that information. He and Malfoy only got their cover stories a couple of days ago. He elbows Malfoy, who still appears to be in shock, in the ribs.

“Nice to meet you.”

The woman introduces herself as Mrs. Miller (“Please, call me Sophie!”), and Harry introduces them both as lawyers. He still doesn’t quite trust Malfoy to pronounce it right.

“I’ll be seeing you at the party tonight, won’t I? Did you get my invitation?” she says, and Harry wishes he could say no. There’s something about her immaculate makeup, perfectly coiffed hair, and casually expensive clothing that unsettles him.

“Of course, Mrs. Miller.”

“Sophie,” she corrects, and then, mercifully, leaves them in the pasta aisle.

“Well, she was delightful,” Malfoy says, leaning on the cart.

Harry nods in agreement. If this is what an innocent housewife in this town looks like, they’re in for a lot more than they bargained for.

* * *

 

“Couldn’t you have just let me carry it?” Harry asks, not for the first time.

“No,” Malfoy replies, refusing to surrender the other side of the lasagna pan. “You’ll drop it.”

“Which one of us set a raw lasagna noodle on fire again? Was that me? I don’t think so.”

“That was—” Malfoy breaks off as they enter the party. It’s being held in Sophie’s back yard, which has been lavishly decorated for the occasion. There are strings of lights draped over the white picket fence, and a selection of paper plates and napkins that look much too nice to be thrown out at the end of the night.

Harry barely has time to scan the crowd before Sophie appears, seemingly out of nowhere.

“So nice of you boys to drop by!” she says, accepting the lasagna and, mercifully, not commenting on the carrying arrangement. “This is my husband, Brad,” she adds, sliding an arm around Brad’s waist where he stands next to the food table. Harry has to keep himself from flinching when he takes in Brad, and he feels Malfoy move beside him. The man has at least ten centimeters on him, the sharpest jaw Harry’s ever seen, and teeth so white they could be porcelain. That, combined with his salmon shorts and blue polo shirt, makes him absolutely terrifying.

“This has got to be the guy,” Malfoy hisses into his ear. Harry wants to yell at him for being so indiscreet, but that would be a little hypocritical. He settles for putting a firm hand on Malfoy’s arm.

“You two make such a sweet couple,” Sophie says, looking between them.

“Oh, we’re not—”

“Thank you!” Harry says over Malfoy’s protests. He slings his arm around Malfoy’s shoulder. This wasn’t part of their original backstory, but Kingsley is always encouraging flexibility in these things. And the couple route is good, notably innocuous. Malfoy should be thanking him for this stroke of brilliance. Harry elbows him in the side.

“Er, yes, thank you. You two as well.”

“So kind of you, dear,” Sophie says. She waves at someone over Harry’s shoulder. “Brad, that’s Andrea! We really must go say hello.”

The Millers walk over to greet a woman who is presumably Andrea, leaving Harry and Malfoy by the food table.

“It’s a good cover,” Harry says, and it’s true, but Malfoy doesn’t look convinced. He actually looks a little nauseated. “Look, you don’t have to kiss me or anything.”

Malfoy doesn’t reply straight away, and Harry’s heart drops to his stomach. He hates walking this line, hates that he didn’t suggest this backstory but still feels responsible for it. They quip back and forth all the time, sure, and sometimes there’s clearly some sort of undefined edge, but rarely do they talk so plainly about this type of thing. Rarely do they define what they both feel. Things are suddenly off-kilter; the delicate equilibrium they’ve built is threatening to give.

Malfoy smirks, and things snap back into place. “You wish.”

Harry allows himself a moment to roll his eyes and then gets down to business. The party has neatly segregated itself into the men and their wives; the plan is for Harry to investigate the former and Malfoy the latter. They talked it over at the house, and both agreed that Malfoy’s knowledge of haute fashion and cuisine will fly better with Sophie’s crowd than Brad’s.

Harry’s grabbing himself a beer from the cooler when the group of men dissolves into chaos. That’s pretty suspicious. He runs over, pushes past shouting men to see…. a television set. Brad and another man are standing in front of it, doing all sorts of motions with their arms and legs.

Harry taps someone on the shoulder. “What are they doing?”

The guy gives Harry a weird look, but he says, “They’re playing Xbox. Kinect?”

“Oh, er, right. Connect.”

Over the next hour, Harry learns and then promptly forgets the names of the men who live on this street and becomes a pro at Kinect ten-pin bowling. He does not, however, learn anything about suspicious Death Eater activity.

Malfoy hasn’t made much headway either, Harry learns when they debrief at the food table. He is, however, fitting in very well with the women.

“Thank God I finally met some reasonable people in this Muggle— _wonderful_ town.” He looks around to see if anyone heard his misstep, and Harry notices that his tie is crooked. Harry tried to talk him out of wearing the thing, but Malfoy insisted. If Harry has to reach over and fix it, well, that’s really Malfoy’s fault.

He does straighten the tie, and Malfoy only grumbles a little bit. Harry smoothes down Malfoy’s jacket for good measure, and then he’s all out of clothing to fix, and he still hasn’t stepped back. They’re close, at a realistic distance for a couple, but much too close for Auror partners, for work friends. Neither of them is moving to widen the distance. Harry meets Malfoy’s eyes, can’t look away.

Music blares suddenly from Harry’s pocket, and the air that was just so charged returns to its regularly scheduled summer humidity. Harry takes a step back to fish his Ministry-issued mobile phone out of his pocket, grinning sheepishly. He taps the green button on the screen, but the ringing doesn’t stop.

“Give me that,” Malfoy says, rolling his eyes. Harry does, and he slides his finger across the screen to answer. He listens for a moment before hanging up. “Sales call,” he explains, handing the phone back to Harry.

“How did… When did you learn to use this thing?” Harry says.

“Cassandra showed me.” He gestures vaguely toward the group of women by the fence. “It’s pretty easy, once you get the hang of it.”

Harry shakes his head in defeat. His knee-jerk reaction to Malfoy having picked this up faster than him is to be jealous, or annoyed, but he finds himself feeling something closer to pride.

“Which one of us grew up with Muggles again?” Malfoy says. Maybe Harry wrote off the annoyance too quickly. “Do you even know how to make a phone call?”

Harry doesn’t, and begrudgingly allows Malfoy to show him. Back on what’s apparently called the “home screen,” Harry’s eyes are drawn to a blue icon.

“Wait, do you think…” Harry pauses to give his full attention to typing in his passcode. It’s the date of his first day at Hogwarts; the guy who sold him the phone said to make it something he’d never forget. “Did that woman teach you how to use the face book? Maybe we could use that to look for suspicious activity.”

“It’s _Facebook_ . There’s no _the_ ; it’s cleaner.”

“Fine, whatever. We should try it,” Harry says, holding the phone out to Malfoy. He isn’t quite sure which button opens Facebook and doesn’t want to embarrass himself any further trying to find it.

“Great, I’m sure the guy has ‘Worshipping Voldemort and Other Death Eating Activities’ listed under his interests,” Malfoy says, his voice low.

“Okay, okay! It was just an idea. It’s not like we have any other leads.”

“I still think it’s this Brad guy,” he says.

Harry nods; it’s as good a place to start as any. He doesn’t have a chance to suggest any sort of plan before Sophie approaches them again. Maybe _approaches_ is the wrong word; her arrival in Harry’s space is starting to feel like a tsunami wave crashing towards him.

“So nice of you boys to come tonight,” she says, and before they have time to respond, adds, “Most of our guests are heading home for the night, but would you like to come in for a glass of wine? We’d love to tell you all about the neighborhood, make you feel truly welcome.”

Harry and Malfoy nod politely, and fifteen minutes later, they’re sitting in the Millers’ kitchen. It’s all stainless steel and sharp edges, almost frighteningly modern. Aunt Petunia would be impossibly jealous.

“Where’s your bathroom?” Harry asks, as planned. Sophie gives him directions, and he walks off into the house, leaving Malfoy to entertain her with his newly acquired knowledge of technology and his apparently preexisting knowledge of fashion.

Instead of walking to the bathroom, Harry looks around the house. It’s large, but not infinitely so: Brad’s stash of Death Eater propaganda has to be somewhere. He knows this type, and they’re never careful with things like this, always arrogant enough to think that an Auror will never discover them.

There’s nothing in the master bedroom, any of the closets, or the bathroom. Harry’s starting to wonder if they have the wrong guy before he opens the door to the basement.

Fumbling for a light switch, he tip toes down the stairs. It’s too dark and creepy for there _not_ to be something down here, he thinks, and he’s not wrong. There’s a table strewn with Death Eater masks, a pile of broken wands on the floor, and, most interestingly, a wall adorned with dozens of moving pictures. Some feature Voldemort himself; others house miscellaneous Death Eaters, but one face is repeated in every photo.

Harry races up the stairs. There’s only one thing on his mind, and that’s Malfoy: alone up there with a definite dark wizard, a possible killer. Danger is in the job description, but Harry still isn’t used to fearing for his partner’s life, isn’t sure if he ever wants to be. He doesn’t let himself think about what would happen if Malfoy were hurt, or worse.

By the time he gets back to the kitchen, it’s almost too late. Sophie Miller is pointing her wand at Malfoy. She lets out a cackle Bellatrix Lestrange would be jealous of.

“I knew they’d send some idiot Aurors after me eventually,” she says, eyes alight. “But I didn’t know I’d be so lucky to get Harry Potter himself!”

“If it’s me you want, let him go,” Harry says. He can hear Ron and Hermione’s voices in his head telling him to drop the goddamn hero complex, but he doesn’t care. In this moment, he’ll do anything it takes to save Malfoy’s life.

Sophie pretends to consider it. “Hmmm, I don’t think so,” she says. “I read the papers. I know this filthy _traitor_ had his Dark Mark removed.”

She turns around to roll the sleeve off of Malfoy’s left wrist, and Harry seizes his opportunity. He takes his phone out of his pocket and calls the only number in his contacts. He’s pretty sure he has the phone upside-down, but his supervisor must get the message, because backup arrives on the scene with a _crack_ within seconds

“Sophie Miller, you’re under arrest,” Olcott says, disarming her nonverbally.

“When the Dark Lord returns, you’ll all pay!” Sophie shrieks, and then, as quickly as the backup Aurors arrived, they apparate with her back to the Ministry, leaving Harry and Malfoy alone in the kitchen.

Harry drives them home. It’s late, but both of them are too keyed up to sleep, and they end up sitting on the couch.

“Thanks,” Malfoy says. “For saving my life.”

“What’s that, the sixteenth time?” Harry says, grinning, and Malfoy punches him in the shoulder. “But seriously, it was all you. If I hadn’t known how to use the mobile phone…”

“We would’ve gotten out of it. We always do.”

They sit there in silence for a while, and then Harry turns on the TV. _Sleepless in Seattle_ is on, and it’s just the kind of mindless thing he’s in the mood for. Malfoy reaches for the remote when he realizes it’s a romantic comedy, but Harry quickly silences his protests.

“I did just save your life,” he reminds him, and Malfoy rolls his eyes but doesn’t change the channel.

Harry’s eyelids grow heavier as Tom Hanks flies across the country, and he’s so sleepy that when Malfoy’s arm ends up around his shoulder, it feels like a dream.

“What are you doing?” he murmurs, and he can feel his vocal cords vibrating in his throat. Not a dream, then.

“We’re undercover,” Malfoy replies, as if that explains why they need to pretend to be a couple late at night in their own house, after the target has been apprehended.

Harry almost says as much, but he changes his mind. He could argue with Malfoy, like always, or he could stay here and lean his head on Malfoy’s shoulder. He chooses the latter.


End file.
